


Put Your Emotions To bed

by Scavenge4Dreams



Series: Insomniac Dreaming [9]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Author has issues, But he hurts so pretty, Fluff, Guilt, M/M, Mild Angst, More angst as promised, Possessive Steve, SO FLUFFY, Sleep, Sleep Deprivation, Sleepiness, Steve Rogers is a saint, Sweet, Tony Being Tony, Tony Has Issues, Will get darker/hurtier., light slash, more smarm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-10
Updated: 2014-01-15
Packaged: 2018-01-08 05:48:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1129065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scavenge4Dreams/pseuds/Scavenge4Dreams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three ways Steve wishes Tony *wouldn't* sleep.</p><p>or</p><p>The sleep of the Stubborn, the Guilty and the Anguished.</p><p> </p><p>*Three non related one-shots. (No cliffs, I promise.)*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. STUBBORN

**Author's Note:**

> This has been floating around in my head... just thought I'd spit it onto paper. 
> 
> A while ago, 'See Me As I Am 101' requested Steve whump... 
> 
> See? Steve!whump!  
> Sort of.  
> I tried, but it still ended up being all about Tony. 
> 
> Sigh. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy - happy reading :)

 

* * *

* * *

 

** STUBBORN **

Stub·born  (stbrn)

**1**.

        a. _Unreasonably, often perversely unyielding; bull-headed._

        b. _Firmly resolved or determined; resolute._

 

 **2**. _Characterized by perseverance; persistent._

 

 **3**. **_Difficult to treat or deal with; resistant to treatment or effort._**

* * *

* * *

Steve looked over his half formed sketch of some unknown night sky. A luminescent full moon hung low on the pages horizon, the velvety deep blue of the background dotted through with the radiant burst of micro-stars, all waiting to be put to shame by the gleam of yet absent red and gold.

 

For a moment he contemplated starting the focus of the sketch, but ultimately decided that the five hours he’d already been drawing were enough for the time being, the slow throb of well-earned muscle fatigue creating a welcome heaviness in his hands.  

 

Dropping the book gently to the floor, he turned, drawing his legs up and curling down into the soft grasp of the battered seat, somehow cradled by its warm familiarity, despite dwarfing the small couch. 

 

It was an odd couch. Steve was half convinced, (despite knowing he was being ridiculous) that it had special ‘magic-future-techno’ properties.

 

Take now for instance.

 

His six foot frame was snug in the seat of the couch, his legs drawn up tightly against his body, and although he wasn’t uncomfortable, it was clear that there wasn’t an inch to spare in any direction.   Yet he knew by experience (plentiful experience) that if Tony were to join him, there would somehow, inexplicably be plenty of room for the two of them to curl together on the soft upholstery.

 

Thor, Bruce, Steve, Clint and Natasha had _all_ somehow sat _side-by-side_ on the thing one evening while they’d silently waited to ambush _someone_ who had decided it had been prudent to skip med-check after having had half a building dropped on him.

 

It practically swallowed Tony whole whenever he was curled up on it, wrapped in a Steve and/or Dummy provided blanket, just the top of his tangled mop of hair visible over the arm.

 

Yet that awful evening Steve had heard a completely uninformed TV presenter announce that tragedy had struck the Stark Empire once again, this time with the death of owner ‘Tony Stark’, he’d bolted to the workshop, sure that he’d seen Tony there about an hour before. Sure enough, he’d stepped through the door, Tony’s name on his lips, only to have his eyes drawn to Tony’s form, sprawled larger than life across what appeared to be an oddly tiny couch.

 

So yes. Suspicions about that couch.

 

A movement caught Steve’s attention, dragging him from his nonsensical thoughts. The sudden stretch was too large to be explained by the repeated turns of whatever minuscule tool Tony was using and Steve watched as his lover reached blindly for the coffee mug balanced precariously on the workbench edge, the genius’s attention not lifting from his other hand.

 

Steve knew for a fact that the coffee was stone cold and unappetising, a greasy film no doubt formed across the top, yet Tony didn’t even pause. He gulped down several mouthfuls and through some miraculous display of peripheral awareness, returned the mug semi-safely to the bench.

 

Shaking his head in equal parts affection and exasperation, Steve glanced at his watch, unsurprised by the 2:20am time stamp.   The coffee was the remnants of the same mug he’d pressed into Tony’s hand when he’d traipsed down to the workshop at around 10 o’clock last night.

 

He’d offered it as an enticement, hoping to convince Tony to follow him upstairs to bed, in return for the caffeinated incentive.  Although not quite all he’d hoped for, Steve had settled for the warm lips and coffee infused kiss he’d been rewarded with. 

 

He’d known convincing Tony that it was _sleep-time_ was a long shot when he’d attempted it; past efforts at this level of fatigue had resulted in very little success.  Still, he’d deemed it worth a shot.

 

He’d attempted, at hour 27, to cajole Tony into bed with a less than subtle promise of more than just sleep, and that had worked. At least until the ‘more than sleep’ became ‘just sleep’, and then Tony had slipped out of their room and back down to his workshop. 

 

There was _always_ a tiny chance that Tony could be coaxed into sleeping, but never when he was working on the team’s equipment, and considering the soft sheen of his own shield beneath Tony’s hands, Steve was pretty sure he had no chance of convincing Tony that it was time for a break.

 

Not that he allowed that to stop him from trying.

 

Hour 32 had devolved into a mild argument, the one that both of them knew by rote, and wasn’t so much an argument as a statement of position.

 

_“Tony, you’ve been awake for over 30 hours – you need some sleep.”_

_“Can’t, busy.”_

And the same thing again, in twelve or more variations, until Steve had finally thrown up his hands and left the workshop, which was almost always the guaranteed outcome.

 

He wasn’t overly concerned; they’d been through this process so many times that Steve knew almost all the ins and outs of Tony’s slow immersion into the unavoidable need for immediate sleep.

 

At some stage after 50 hours, he knew Tony would devolve beyond merely being tired, right into pure exhaustion, and Steve would simply be able to shepherd, if not literally carry, his lover to bed.

 

Yet, despite knowing that Tony would inevitably end up sleepy and clingy and perfect, Steve still tried to avoid reaching that stage. He absolutely adored the vulnerable and endearing persona of his lover, but would never be able to just accept it as the best option, not so long as Tony had to basically wreck himself before getting to that state.

 

This particular night (morning) was vexing Steve more than a little, as Tony had been awake some 42 hours and according to past experience, the genius should have been at the stage where he was stifling yawns, fumbling tools with shaky imprecise movements and blinking heavy eyes. 

 

So quite naturally, he seemed completely wired.

 

His narrowed brown gaze had been concentrating closely on the fine-motor facilitation upgrades for hours, hands steady, and movements smooth and sure as they kept up with his whirring mind.

 

Steve would blame the caffeine, but he was pretty sure his lover was somehow both addicted and immune.

 

There was still a chance, however minute, that this _wasn’t approaching_ what Steve _hoped it wasn’t._

 

He had a feeling that he wasn’t going to be dealing with Tony in his adorable plaint state, nor his usual graceless tumble into bed, his mouth sour but brown eyes beckoning in their heavy warmth.

 

Instead, with a feeling of dread, he was beginning to suspect the presence of a ‘different’ Tony, a new persona.   This one rare, in that Steve had only experienced him a handful of times before, and could with good grace, admit that of all the aspects of Tony’s personality he’d dealt with, this was the one he hated most.

 

Okay, that was a blatant lie.

 

He didn’t, couldn’t, hate any of Tony’s masks or persona’s.

 

This one was just his least favourite, so far. 

_This_ Tony was an unholy pain in the ass, belligerent, argumentative, mule-headed and seemingly uncaring of the fact that Steve was worried because his lover may not have slept in more than 40 hours.

 

And even more annoying (and more unusual) than all that, was the fact that this Tony didn’t have any of the usual signs of being tired, and so Steve couldn’t even push his agenda by pointing out how fatigued Tony was.

 

Because he didn’t even appear to _be_ exhausted.

 

Except he was, undoubtedly so, perhaps even more so that when he fell into his ‘sleepy-Tony’ persona, because the thing about this most recent persona was the occasions when Tony would sudde-

 

The sound of the tiny tool turning gently, repeatedly against metal stopped suddenly and Tony fell completely still – it was what Steve had both been waiting for and hoping didn’t occur.

 

Steve knew, just knew, that Tony, upright on the stool at the bench, one foot propped on the foot rest and the other dangling free, tool still in hand, poised over where the other was still holding the leather strap of the shield tightly in place - was asleep.

 

During the second or third encounter Steve had subconsciously named this persona, ‘Ultra-Stubborn-Tony’.

 

And even now, the seventh? Eighth? Time, Steve still had no idea how to deal with this particular Tony.

 

* * *

 

The first time had been during a crazy work binge Tony had gone on in the immediate aftermath of Clint getting hurt during one of their battles- the result of an arrow head failing to load-out from his quiver.

 

Despite the archers wounds being mild (relatively), and the fact that the arrow load-out mechanism had been of S.H.I.E.L.D design (pre Stark consultancy days), Tony had still thrown himself head first into the re-design and fabrication of something better, refusing to even come up for air, let alone food or sleep.

 

The first 15 hours or so, the others had let him be, knowing that Tony wasn’t the only one shaken up by what could have easily been a hell of a lot worse than a simple wrist and shoulder sprain, the genius just had the added benefit of being one of the only ones who could actually do something about it.

 

When he’d failed to show for movie night that evening though, Steve had wandered down to the workshop, expecting to find Tony so caught up in his work that he honestly didn’t have a clue as to the day or time. Instead he’d found, and subsequently left to his inventive creativity, a very focused, determined and unable to be distracted Tony Stark.

 

Then Tony hadn’t shown up for breakfast the next morning, and by lunch the understanding and acceptance had started to give way to concern and worry.  Strangely though, when pressed, he’d eaten the provided sandwich and drank the glass of water with no fuss…

 

Tony was amendable to being fed, wasn’t blasting music, hadn’t lambasted Dummy once the whole afternoon that Steve had been in the workshop, hadn’t groused about the impromptu one man ‘gawk at Tony’ party from the vicinity of his couch…

 

He’d just refused to stop working.

 

It had happened around hour 30; early by all successive standards.  

 

Tony had been a riot of movement for the previous 20 minutes, checking, and rechecking the load-out of the ‘problem’ arrow, when suddenly he’d just…stopped.

 

The arrow was still held between two fingers and the quiver clutched in the vee of his arm, but his usually animated face was smooth and his eyes closed. 

 

It had taken a moment for Steve to notice and establish that Tony was actually asleep, the suddenness of the change drawing his attention from the quiet conversation he’d been having with Dummy.

 

Steve had then made the fairly reasonable assumption that if he simply woke Tony, the genius would realise exactly how tired he was and head to a bed to get some proper sleep.

 

Of course, that would only be applicable to a _fairly reasonable_ person.

 

Tony had brushed him off with a snarled “just thinking” before turning straight back to his work.

 

Steve hadn’t been impressed, but knowing his lover well enough to realise that this was about Clint and near death and a whole myriad of other things, had simply let it go at the time.

 

Thankfully though, the full extent of the nature of this particular Tony wasn’t realised until a later date, for the design of the quiver and arrows was deemed complete only half an hour later, and upon delivery, the usual sarcastically charming Tony had allowed Steve to coax him upstairs.

 

* * *

The second time, Steve had attempted to pick him up and move him.

 

And the third, and fourth.

 

Each had been met with the same level of success, namely – none.

 

As soon as he’d registered being moved, Tony had immediately woken and demanded that Steve leave him be, that he was “busy” and had to finish the task he was working on. 

 

The fourth time, Steve had made the mistake of pressing him, concern heightened because Tony had been awake some 50 hours and was still recovering from a nasty chest infection. 

 

The situation had quickly devolved into a particularly nasty argument, at least on Tony’s behalf, and Steve had been introduced properly, to the belligerent and mule headed nature of this particular persona.    By way of Tony demanding that if Steve couldn’t wrap his serum enhanced understanding around the importance of this work then perhaps he’d best just head back to the gym. 

 

Steve had contemplated just leaving, but the sudden coughing fit had stayed his hurt feelings and he returned to the couch, telling himself that it wasn’t personal, that this was just the result of Tony having being ill and kept abed for the past week and a half…

* * *

 The fifth time, which had happened to be only minutes after the fourth, Steve had done nothing.

 

He’d told himself that his lack of action was because he didn’t know _what_ action to take.  Waking Tony didn’t work, nor did trying to carry him to bed. Tony wasn’t pliant and amiable like Steve had come to expect from this many hours without sleep, and nor was he the Tony that Steve could cajole/bribe/persuade. 

 

Steve just didn’t know how to deal with such... mule-headedness!

 

He deliberately ignored the little voice that told him his lack of action was in direct correlation to the hurt he had felt from Tony’s apparent disregard for his intelligence.

 

He’d simply watched with a slightly sour taste in his mouth as Tony had suddenly nodded off at his workbench again, not five minutes after the previous time.

 

Equal parts worry, anger and exasperation had warred within him. Tony really should have been in bed asleep, not working on…whatever it was he’d deemed so important.

 

Technically though…Tony _was_ sleeping, right?   

 

Maybe he should just leave him?

 

And then Tony’s had relaxed and the screw driver clutched in his left hand had dropped to the floor with a clutter and Tony had woken with a start, his eyes had flown open and he’d jolted to his feet with a shout. 

 

Despite the death glare he’d received for his troubles, Steve had thought it quite funny (and quite a soothing balm to the lingering sting). 

* * *

He hadn’t though it funny the next time, when it was Tony that had fallen to the floor with an impressive bang. 

 

Especially when the genius had somehow managed to pull the red and gold chest plate and half the lower armour down on top of himself.

 

Steve had rushed across the room, and helped his lover extract himself from beneath his inanimate suit of armour, easily lifting the hefty pieces back onto the workbench. Steve had then swept Tony up as well, sitting him carefully on the bench beside his armour.

 

Pressing in close, Steve had run searching fingers over the lump he could already feel forming at Tony’s hairline, he’d deemed it to be mild, but not in the mood to deal with any more belligerence, he’d said, “Bruce or Bed.”

 

Tony had shot a dark look up at him from beneath hooded eyelashes, but had seemed to think better of arguing when he caught a glimpse of the steel in Steve’s own answering gaze.  

 

The gentle fingers at his forehead and arm wrapped securely around his waist also stayed his tongue, and with a sigh Tony slipped from the bench, sliding down Steve’s chest to slow his decent to the floor as he answered, “You always have the best ideas…To bed, then.”

 

It was both capitulation and as near to an apology as Steve was likely to get.

 

* * *

That last instance had been several months ago, and now, watching Tony across the room, Steve was not really sure what to do.

He’d always been a fast learner, but for some reason, braining his boyfriend into a better mood didn’t seem like a sound strategy.

Getting to his feet quietly Steve padded across the room, stepping over the several nuts and bolts that his game of fetch with Dummy earlier had left strewn across the floor.  Reaching the bench, Steve stepped up to the right and stopped, looking down at closed eyes and smooth features.

Tony was definitely asleep.

Thinking quickly, Steve slowly reached out and lightly lay a hand over Tony’s closest, the one clutching the small tool. When his touch didn’t event warrant a murmured response, he gently eased the…screwdriver/spanner/wrench… thing, from Tony’s grasp and set it quietly on the bench.

So far, so good.

Tony’s other hand was clenched around the leather strap that made up the hand hold on the shield, and Steve was wary to try and remove the small digits from their apparent death grasp.

His grip looked fairly secure in the strap and the shield itself secure on the bench and so Steve decided to leave him be for now, although made a point to remind himself that in the instance of Tony staring to fall, braining by the comparatively sharp edge of his shield would be even less fun than that of the Ironman armour.

And then, unable to either wake Tony, or move him…Steve just stood there, ready to catch him should Tony suddenly list.

20 minutes later, and Steve was leaning against the bench, caught up in the roughly scribbled sketch forming beneath his fingers on some ripped, stained scrap of paper, the still vaguely recognisable Stark Industries logo branded across the top.

He’d captured his shield, and Tony’s hand caught up beneath the carefully maintained leather strap, small compared to his own grasp… and yeah, so apparently he was a little bit possessive about _that_ particular hand on _that_ particular shield.

He was working at getting the stubby fingernails just right- well maintained, yet absolutely filthy- when he was startled from his close perusal by a sudden weight plastered down his left side.

Steve easily recognised the familiar press of Tony’s body against his own, but looking down, he was still somewhat non-plussed by the image. 

For all intents and purposes, Tony was still sitting on the stool, but he’d swivelled his entire upper body and just _slumped._  

If Steve’s conveniently placed six foot frame hadn’t been present, the genius would have slumped the fair distance to the concrete floor.

Taking in the precarious balance of his position, Steve wrapped an arm about Tony’s waist, murmuring a soothing agreement as Tony huffed a breath of warm air against his chest.  

And god, wasn’t this just _stubborn_ in practice. 

To work himself so vigorously, without rest, either physical rest, or mental rest…never taking even a moment away from the strain of constant thinking.  To get so beyond tired, so over-tired, that he literally couldn’t keep his eyes open another second… and still adamantly refuse to just let go.

 _Tony_ in practice.

Unsure what to do, waking Tony still seemed as much of a bad idea as it had 20 minutes ago (more of a bad idea – Tony was _plastered_ against him right now), yet, surely he should try to get Tony to bed. He really needed to work out a way to deal with this particular Tony, and fast.

And then he stopped.

Stopped thinking, stopped wondering.

Because apparently, Tony had just given him a way.

Tony was sleeping, safe (and quite frankly, as far as Steve was concerned – where he belonged), and to be honest, for as long as Tony was here, asleep, Steve really couldn’t think of anything he’d rather be doing than standing here.

Didn’t have anything better to do than draw where _his_ lover hand, talented, and versatile and so very, very sinful, was curled possessively about Steve’s own shield.

Except… looking down at the feather light touch against his waist, and seeing Tony’s other hand settled loosely against the waist band of his jeans, his thumb disappearing up under white cotton, Steve decided he might just draw that instead.

* * *

* * *

* * *

 


	2. Guilt

GUILT

(glt)

**1.**

a. _The fact of being responsible for the commission of an offense._

b. _The fact of having been found to have violated a criminal law._

c. _Responsibility for a mistake or error._

**2.**

a. _Remorseful awareness of having done something wrong._

b. **_Self-reproach for supposed inadequacy or wrongdoing._**

****

 

* * *

Steve was thinking about Tony again.

Not that this was in any way unusual, even back in the very early months of their acquaintance, in the immediate aftermath of _Loki_ and the tumultuously rocky alliance that had formed between them, Steve had thought a lot about Tony.

Admittedly, the lines of said thought had changed a lot since then-

Irrational irritation, shadowed with dislike and a completely unexplainable, and deeply internalised need to safeguard.

Gradually transitioning into -with the help of several interfering superhero’s, a stunt of breathtakingly selfless stupidity and of course, a near death experience-

An (unappreciated) irrational need to protect, shadowed with love and a not so unexplainable, nor overly internalised desire to _knock some form of common sense into him._

So, Steve thought a lot of things about Tony.

Affectionate things, annoyed things, sweet things, exasperated things, ‘Oh my god – why do I love you?’ things, ‘Oh my god- that’s why I love you’ things, pleasant things, beyond pleasant things….

And because they made up about half the things he thought…worried/concerned things.

And if the way things were going right now was any indication…Steve didn’t think he’d have any reason to stop thinking those worried/concerned things any time soon (ever).

If he’d only come to learn one thing about Tony Stark in all the time they’d know each other, it was that the man was as unpredictable as, well, he’d say the weather, but even that had nothing on Tony Stark.

Although, perhaps unpredictable was the wrong word, because in some ways, Tony was as predictable as the rising sun. He could be relied upon, without fail, to provide his trademark narcissistic sarcasm, his somehow both filthy, yet charmingly endearing mouth and of course, his complete inability to accept authority, gracefully or otherwise.

Perhaps contradiction was a better term, Steve though, because, yes, behind all the masks and layers and “ _Stark_ ”, Tony was definitely the epitome of a walking contradiction. 

If he allowed you to see, or you forced him to show it, narcissistic sarcasm gave way to a startlingly obvious insecurity, and a sometimes mind-blowing sense of selflessness. 

The inability to bow to authority became a charade for a fear born of being not good enough, a fear of disappointing the few he actually had any amount of respect for.

Admittedly, there was very little behind that filthy gorgeous mouth…

So yes, contradiction was apt.

Yet not enough. Nowhere near enough.

If unpredictable didn’t suit, than perhaps a certain level of volatility in that predictability was a more appropriate descriptor. 

Steve supposed what he was trying to say (think) was that he was pretty sure he could predict Tony’s response to just about any given situation, yet the nuances within that response were completely unpredictable.

The situation at hand, the initial foundation of his rather introspective analysis of his… boyfriend? Lover? Partner?

…of his Tony, was guilt.

Guilt.

He was pretty sure that if he asked anyone not part of the avengers intimate family or close immediate relatives (i.e. Pepper, Phil, Rhodey…), hell, if you’d asked Steve himself before he’d ended up sharing his bed/heart/life with the guy, he’d have said that Tony Stark didn’t have a shred of humility, and thus could never feel, let alone express guilt.

God, he’d never been so wrong in his life.

In the beginning he’d watched as others had ripped Tony down and torn him apart. Fury, the media, and in some cases, the other avengers themselves. Blaming him, accusing him, sometimes with good merit, yet never so clear-cut and sometimes, more often than Steve was willing to think about…totally without reason or remorse.

A convenient target.

And one that didn’t argue back. 

Steve did notice this. Noticed that with all the repeated instances where Tony would be smeared through the mud with the guilt of others, he’d never throw it back, never make others wear the grime of their own deeds.

He would deflect, snark and bite, only succeeding in pulling the guilt closer…the disgrace closer to himself…and further from sullying anyone else.

And Steve, who was already beginning to see beneath the mask, through the minute cracks, realised that Tony, who was never played, never fooled, knew exactly what was happening. A

As Steve began to realise just how _wrong_ and _right_ he’d been about Tony, he also realised that not only was everyone else ripping Tony apart; with the perfect façade broken, he saw that Tony was tearing himself apart as well.

Steve had come to realise that Tony Stark didn’t just _feel_ guilt, he _personified_ it. 

What didn’t change was the observation that Tony had no idea how to _express_ guilt.

His attempts always seemed to be one of three ways.

And each seems to correlate directly to what type of guilt he’s feeling.

 

* * *

Like everyone, there are times when Tony _should_ feel guilt, _should_ feel remorse over a bad or pointless decision – and these are the only times that Steve and Tony truly butt as far as guilt is concerned.  Because just to be contrary, Tony buries this guilt so deep, that by looking at him, you’d never know it was there. 

A perfect example was the skirmish the week before last, where Tony had made a deliberately bad choice after considered thought, engaging the (admittedly weak) enemy by himself, instead of waiting for the approaching backup.  Steve was left dealing with a complete denial of guilt, yet knew that it was there, bubbling below the surface. He’d watched, as despite the lecture and the pressing for _any response,_ as Tony had silently fallen apart behind shuttered eyes.

The decision had been made in poor judgment, yet it was done and over with no one the poorer for it. Steve hadn’t been looking for a promise of never doing it again as he’d realised the futility of that. All he’d wanted was an acknowledgement that Tony realised he probably hadn’t made the wisest decision and an apology.

Which he had eventually received, albeit it grudgingly, and Steve had walked away feeling like he should be _thanking_ Tony for his reasonable behaviour.

_Sigh._

But still, worse than that _non-guilt,_ was the angry, petulant guilt created by mistakes of Tony’s own doing. Forgetting a birthday or anniversary, saying something insensitive or hurtful by speaking without due thought, angry jabs made during bad moods born of exhaustion. 

All these resulted in a sulky, reluctant guilt that Tony flung about in the face of recriminations, as if his misdeeds were every man and his dogs fault… but not Tony’s. It was in fact, painful to be on the receiving end of such guilt, because where a genuine ‘sorry’ and in Steve’s case (and Steve’s case only) a kiss, would right things in an instant, Tony insisted on dragging out this pathetically morose shame until the _victim_  all but begged Tony to accept their forgiveness.

_Seriously._

And then, the cause behind all Steve’s thinking about Tony this evening, was his apparent need to shoulder that which hadn’t even been his fault.

And the resulting _silent, devastated_ guilt.   

 

* * *

There had been a falling building, a fire, two shouts for help and Tony had gone after the civilian trapped in the inferno and no one had caught Steve when he’d fallen.

Fallen sounded so _trivial._

_No one had caught Steve when he’d plummeted 40 stories through falling debris and the twisted rebar of the buildings exo-structure, slamming into the shattered concrete ground mere seconds later; a dull thud echoing in the strangely vacuum like silence._

The crescendo of silence had shattered with Ironman’s boots skittering along the messed up concrete and his knees crunching to a halt by the crumpled mess of red white and blue.

The battle had been won easily, but the cost was too high, almost beyond what _Tony Stark_ could afford to pay.   Only the strength in the deep red glove held closely in his own vibrant red gauntlet kept him from breaking.

For once Tony hadn’t voiced a single complaint as he’d been ushered to SHIELD medical, ghosting along in the wake of the too small stretcher that held Steve’s unconscious bloody, broken body. 

Somehow, despite the blood, bruises and ashen skin, to Tony, Steve still looked larger than life, even decked out with medical equipment and surrounded by SHILED personnel.  

The Captain had woken with a pained gasp on the flight between the city and the Hellicarrier, concussed, in pain and unable to breathe properly. Sensing a presence other than that of the two medical staff, he’d squinted into the bright light off to the far left of the bed and his eyes had widened at seeing Tony.

Standard operating procedure decreed that none but the injured party/s be transported on the med shuttle, seeing as how one passenger would inevitably end up as five passengers in a very small area. Carrying a wide variety of anger management issues, no understanding of midgaurdian medical practices, an obnoxious inability to sit still, an obnoxious penchant for _perching_ or just being downright scary.

No passengers on the med shuttle.

But at seeing the state of his lover, Steve understood why they’d waived the rule.

Tony was _waxen_ , his eyes blown huge and glassy with some unnamed emotion that looked a hell of a lot like unbridled terror. Steve was pretty sure the armour was the only thing keeping him standing.

And despite the pain of shattered ribs, the wooziness of a sure concussion and a myriad of other agonies, Steve still held out a hand, gesturing gently until he had Tony’s attention. 

Tony’s head had tiled to the side in an agonisingly insecure nod gesture of _‘Who, me?’_ and he’d finally shuffled forward, and Steve swore when their hands touched, that he could feel the vibrations through the metal.

Their hands had remained joined the remainder of the trip.

 

* * *

Steve’s suspicions of broken ribs were confirmed with a numbering of four, and by the time the x-rays were processed, the very beginnings of the mend could already be seen.  His concussion was categorised as ‘very severe’, which for Captain America, meant that his head might as well have been caved in had he been anyone else, and quite naturally, he was not to be alone for at least 48 hours.

Somehow, more by good luck than good management, his fall had been broken by two sections of rebar… hence the broken ribs, but ultimately this had proven to be a good thing as it had slowed his fall enough to result in only good old fashioned aches, pains and what would no doubt be a gorgeous shade of bruising in later hours.    And the concussion.

They’d bound his ribs, provided inadequate aspirin and shooed the Captain and his five faithful (large, intimidating, quarrelsome, mischievous) shadows from the room with no small measure of relief, although they had at least confirmed that Bruce knew the standard treatment for concussion.

 And so they’d gone home.

Whatever shock had steeled over Tony in the immediate aftermath of Steve’s fall seemed to have worn off somewhere between realising Steve was going to be okay and getting home.

When they’d arrived Tony had been most attentive and helpful in getting Steve settled. He’d suggested they use a room on the team floors rather than the penthouse, so that there would be less walking for Steve.  He’d provided pillows for support and then removed said pillows when they proved to be too much support. Blankets had been fetched and discarded and tucked in around Steve. Glasses of water and snack food had been offered. His aspirin had been pressed into his hand.

Tony was never too intrusive, never too coddling, just a steady, warm presence and a hand all too willing to help when needed.

It was perfect. _He_ was perfect.  Thoughtful and careful and perfectly attentive.

And he hadn’t met Steve’s eyes _once._

With a glance thrown over the room and a second of hesitance for Steve to say if he needed anything else, Tony shrugged carefully and had said, “I’m just going to go and get out of the suit, then I’ll be back…yell if you need anything.”

And before Steve could say anything, Tony was gone.

 

Steve honestly didn’t expect to see him again until he somehow managed to hobble down to the workshop and dig him out of his self-imposed exile of unnecessary guilt.

 

* * *

Only he does, and within minutes.

 

20 minutes after leaving, Tony is back in the room, Steve’s favourite sketchbook, which had been in the lounge room, and a cup of tea in hand.

 

It was thoughtful and considerate and he got a little tilt of lips for his thankyou, and Steve had hoped everything would be alright.

 

That night, Tony had stayed upstairs, in the bed, with Steve for the entire night. There had been no impromptu forays to the workshop, no sudden bursts of inspiration that absolutely had to be written down at four in the morning, no inescapable need for coffee.

 

Just Tony and Steve in bed all night.

 

Steve would eat his shield if Tony had slept a wink.

 

Over the time they’d shared a bed, they had fallen into a ‘routine position’. Tony on his back, Steve half on his side and half on his stomach, curled over Tony’s side, one leg thrown carelessly across to tangle and the other stretched straight. His lower arm tucked underneath the pillow at his head and the other looped lightly about Tony’s waist. The very tips of his fingers extending to brush the arc reactor.

 

With Steve’s ribs and various other aches and pains it was hardly a viable option, and Steve had been on his back, slightly elevated with Tony mirroring his position beside him.

 

Rigid, tense and completely still the entire night.

 

Tony, who usually wriggled and shifted about in his sleep as if the bed were a dance floor and Steve his partner.

 

Steve had only made one vaguely questioning attempt, and had been forced to accept the sense of Tony’s response of not wanting to jar Steve’s injuries.

 

But it wasn’t that.

 

He knew it wasn’t that.

 

* * *

The next morning he’d woken, surprised by how late he’d slept, by how many hours his body had needed.  He had recollections, some vague enough to be dreams and some crystal clear, of Tony waking him throughout the night, always with the same three questions.

 

_What is your name?_

_Who do you love?_

_Apple pie or fondue?_

Surprisingly it was Steve’s answers that changed.

 

_Steve Rogers_

_Tony Stark_

_Oh for…no._

_Steve Rogers_

_Tony Stark_

_Ton-_

_Steve. Oh fine, Steve Rogers_

_You’re the pain in the ass I love._

_Fondue. Happy._

_We did this not fi- *sigh* Steve._

_-Tony._

_Forget the fondue – you. I’d pick you._

And among the more vague memories was the gentle brush of shaking fingers through his hair and Steve wondered if the questions of love were more self-reminders than brain damage checks.

 

He didn’t ask though. 

Couldn’t

 

Not when Tony brought him breakfast in bed, and joined him as he ate, scoffing down his own eggs with apparent gusto.  The full night spent in a bed and an actual breakfast were more to the appearance of healthy behaviour than Steve had ever seen from Tony.

_If only he didn’t look so blank._

 

* * *

 

They’d spent the entire morning together as well, and Steve didn’t know whether he was in heaven or hell.  Because this behaviour was just not natural. Not in the general sense that Tony _hardly ever_ stayed abed, but also in the way that he _wasn’t Tony._

 

There was no snark, no charm or sarcasm. No looks so sinful Steve’s whole chest flushed, no looks so loving his whole chest seized.  

 

And at first he thought it was about what had happened the day before. The fall and those moments when no one had even known if Steve was dead or alive.   He thought that this might have been Tony’s way of coping with his nearly earth shattering loss.

 

And Steve could get behind that. It wasn’t the first time they’d almost lost someone, it wasn’t even the first time Tony had almost lost Steve… but who was Steve to dictate the ways of the heart and what did and didn’t make an impact.

 

Steve didn’t even want to imagine being on the other side of that fall. It had happened way too many times before and each time left him raw in a way that he’d thought would never heal. But it had, with time and attention and plenty of Tony, he’d let the terror go and moved on, and he hoped Tony would too.

 

But by the way Tony still hadn’t looked at him, _hadn’t met his eyes,_ even _once_ since they’d got home?

 

That was telling Steve a whole different story.  One he didn’t think he wanted to hear.

 

 

* * *

After lunchtime and a second meal, Tony was still insisting on looking _through_ him.

 

Steve asked.

 

“Tony?”

 

Tony, seated on the floor with his back against the leg of his desk chair, as you do…well, as you do if you’re Tony Stark, looked up from the tablet he was tapping away at, an intensely focused look directed at Steve, considering Tony’s usual single minded attention to his work.

 

“Hmm…Okay? Do you need something?”

 

Steve shuffled himself further upright against his veritable mound of pillows with a badly concealed grunt of pain.

 

Deliberately.

 

Tony was by his side in an instant, fussing needlessly with the pillows, his hands fluttering feather light touches over Steve’s wrapped chest as if his fingers could magically ease some of the discomfort.

 

Which they actually did, much to Steve’s disbelief. He’d have to remember that for later.

 

For now though? He had a boyfriend to shamelessly manipulate into telling him what was wrong.

 

Who, him?  He was genetically modified apple pie, and butter didn’t have the heart to melt in his mouth.

 

He was _Captain America._

 

Tony, master manipulator, and all around Steve expert that he was? Fell for it hook, line and sinker.

 

“Steve? Are you okay? Do you need more aspirin? Bruce?”

 

Steve felt mildly guilty for the concern shining at him from those brown eyes, but only mildly…because those brown eyes were shining at him.

 

“No – if you could just…I have, well…I have an itch.”

 

That got him a quirked grin and Steve was quick to return it.

 

“An itch, huh?  And you’d like me to…. _scratch this itch?_ ”

 

There was clear innuendo in Tony’s voice and Steve felt like sobbing in relief, because maybe all Tony needed was some normalcy, some proof that everything was alright.

 

And then his heart dropped to his stomach and Steve could feel it coming up with what felt like the rest of his internal organs.

 

He didn’t know what Tony had just seen on his face, but the look he was seeing on Tony’s?

 

It said, _blame, shame, remorse, fault, responsibility…. It said guilt._

And before Steve could say anything, could even reach out…

 

Tony was gone.

 

And only a broken, raw “I’m sorry” echoed in the sudden miles between them.

 

* * *

 

That had been just over two hours ago. 

 

He’d wanted to race after him straight away, grab him, and hold him until it all just faded away.

 

But Steve knew what was going on in Tony’s head. He’d seen it before, twice.

 

 

* * *

It had just been a regular movie night, late, Star Trek was winding down.  Steve had lulled an exhausted Tony to sleep with gentle fingers, mostly for his own benefit, Natasha threatening to disembowel him with a spoon if he pulled apart even one more science glitch in the movie.

 

Jim Kirk had just pulled the ship from the black hole when the whole tower had shaken.

 

It had been completely unexpected, and for a moment hearts raced with all the possible situations, each more terrifying that the one before.

 

It turned out to be a decent earth tremor, nothing more.

 

The Avengers Tower was the only building to sustain significant damage.

 

And that was more a result of the 1500lb green rage monster that had torn through half the rooms on the floor, leaving several million dollars’ worth of damage in his wake.

 

Tony had managed to calm Hulk within minutes, although calming Bruce had taken considerably longer, once he’d seen the damage.

 

Tony had, of course, brushed the damage away as of little to no concern, simply stating that he’d done worse and not to worry about it.

 

Bruce had been inconsolable.  It had been a serious setback to his confidence levels, despite Tony being there every second of the next few days, reassuring him over and over that it didn’t matter, that it meant nothing.

 

Bruce had still ultimately made the decision to leave.

 

And that was when the truly horrifying aspect had come to light.

 

When Tony had all but thrown himself on Bruce’s mercy, apologising for not stopping the hulk out and not predicting the tremor or the Hulks possible reaction.

 

He’d apologised for _falling asleep._

Steve had only heard about this second hand, through Bruce who had confided in him after the fact, asking his opinion in dealing with the warped mind of his best friend.

 

Steve had been almost speechless, but had managed to spit something out to Bruce about trust going both ways, and Tony obviously needing forgiveness despite not having done anything to require it. He’d also told Bruce that if he left… Tony would probably take that as cement to reinforce the guilt.

 

Bruce had stayed, and Steve had no idea what he’d said to Tony.  Although from the amount of responsibility and protectiveness that Tony always projected towards the Hulk, Steve couldn’t say he was overly confident it had worked anyway.

 

* * *

 

The second time was even less helpful than the first, just a decidedly vivid memory of an overheard conversation between Tony and Clint.

 

“Hey Birdbrain- nothing more than ruffled feathers? I almost thought…”

 

“Nothing could keep me away.”

 

“Um, we’re in the kitchen.”

 

“Everything you own, everything you love, will be mine.”

 

“O-ookay. Um, I’ll just call f- Wait. You want Steve? You can’t have Steve.”

 

“What else? What else _is_ there?”

 

“Well nothing of course. There is only Steve.  Want to tell me why you’re quoting ‘The Swan Princess’ to me in my kitchen at 4:30 in the morning?”

 

“It’s not what it seems. It’s _not_ what it seems.”

 

“You do realise that’s totally a girl’s movie right… I mean, true love and swans and singings…”

 

“No more Mr. Nice Guy, no sirree!”

 

“An idea! A substantial idea! A large, colossal idea!. Oh, I’d love to stay but if I don’t leave now I’ll be late; that’s tacky.”

 

“Hey! I thought you said it was a girl’s movie! ”

 

“Of course it is. It’s also Pepper’s favourite.”

 

“Yeah? Its Nat’s too.”

 

“So that’s why you’re up at 4:30 in the am. Watching princess movies with the princess.”

 

“I’m going to tell her you called her that.”

 

“What?  A princess? Princesses are awesome. Pocahontas? Awesome. Mulan? Double awesome.”

 

“Okay –now I’m worried. How long have _you_ been awake?”

 

“Not long. I’ve been working since yesterday lunch.”

 

“Yeah. That sentence made no sense to me. But you’re okay? ”

 

“Me? Why would I not be okay? You, on the other hand, got the shit beat out of you less than 24 hours ago, because your only available backup wasn’t worth a sack of horse ma-”

 

“Well, there was hardly any shit going anywhere. Besides, I was- Wait! What?! How the hell is any of this _your_ fault?”

 

“Oh, I- I guess that wasn’t as in my head as I th-”

 

“No, it damn well was not! Now answer me! What the-”

 

“Can we just go back to talking about Mul-”

 

“No! For god’s sake Tony, how was yesterday your fault? What did you do?!”

 

“Do? WHAT DID I DO?! I did fuck all, that’s what I did! I just let them beat the crap ou-”

 

“Oh. You just let them? Just stood off to the side and watched while the-”

 

“I’d might as fucking well have! I didn’t lift a finger to stop them!”

 

“Okay. You’re right. You should have done _something_.  Yelled at them, or ratted your shackles maybe.”

 

“I’m not fucking useless, I could ha-”

 

“You could have done no more than you fucking did! For god’s sake Tony, they ripped the fucking arc-reactor out of your chest!”

 

“So! I should have stopped th-”

 

“I can’t... I’m not having this ridiculous conv- No! You liste- LISTEN! You were blue in the face and breathing like you couldn’t and that asshole was standing in the corner caressing you _fucking heart_ like it was some damn trophy and that fucking Arnold Schwarzenegger wannabe was beating into me like I was an overweight coach surfer…and you were talking your goddamn breathless ass off, pissing him off so much that he kept giving me breaks to catch myself by stomping over to loom over you-”

 

And then Steve had watched as Clint had hugged Tony, tight, like he couldn’t believe he was actually able to do so, and snarled a decidedly ungrateful sounding “Thankyou” before stomping off.

 

Steve had never spoken about what he’d overheard.

 

* * *

 

In both cases, the common denominator seemed to be situations that went up shit creek without a paddle, where, if there _was_ any fault on Tony’s behalf, it was not in a way anyone would ever blame him.  

Except apparently Tony himself, of course.

Steve put up with the _non-guilt_ and the _reluctant-guilt_ because they did inevitably serve a purpose. As much as he might wish Tony had a better handle on dealing with guilt, the two different aspects caused him discomfort and that was good.  Oh, Steve hated the _way_ they caused discomfort and the _type_ of discomfort they caused…but they _did_ cause discomfort and that meant he had a conscience and that meant Tony _could_ learn from his mistakes. 

This though? There was no need for this. 

There was no foreseeable, imaginable, conceivable, possible way that Tony was to blame.

_And Steve meant to impart some of that wisdom to Tony himself._

 

* * *

Just as soon as he could find him.

 

He’d levered himself up and out of bed, carefully, with more groaning than he’d thought strictly necessary.

 

He was better, much better… near 50% better if he had his estimations correct. Which still meant he had half broken ribs and half healed cuts and bruises, so was in plenty of serum bolstered pain.

 

And also – a bit shaky on his feet. Which was unfortunate but not unexpected given the level of muscle damage.

 

It did make walking an absolute pain in the ass.

 

But Tony was worth every bit of pain and a whole lot more besides, so he shoved it down deep and hoped he didn’t meet Bruce while traipsing the hall without so much as the aid of a walking cane.

 

He’d seen even Tony cringe when on the receiving end of one of Bruce’s ever gentle and understanding tirades of doom.

 

He thought workshop, out of habit and instinct, but at least had the common sense to check with JARVIS _before_ making the 80 story drop.

 

And apparently, no.  Because Tony was only two doors down.

 

In Steve’s ‘old’ bedroom

 

Steve stopped in the doorway. In reality it was to catch his breath while leaning against the door frame, his legs spasming beneath him, but he was covering with the excuse of staring at Tony.

 

The room was exactly as he left it – bare, cold and without reason.  But the one thing that made it the most wonderful room in the tower was sprawled fully across the bed in a wash of creamy skin, dark hair, clean, yet oddly stained cotton and white wash denim.

 

To Steve, it was what made any room in the tower wonderful.

 

Tony had obviously run without thought, yet his concern for Steve had arrested the urge to flee to the safety of his workshop and he’d settled for somewhere close enough that he’d hear if Steve so much as whimpered loudly.

 

And then he’d promptly fallen asleep, face down across the abandoned bed.

 

Steve knew Tony was tired, had seen it in slower than manic movements and less than hyped gestures. Heard it in the slow roll of words.   Tony was always running short on sleep. Steve was sure that his genius had such a back log of sleep deprivation that even if he slept 10 hours every night the rest of his life, he’d never make up the difference.

 

 

He was still wearing his socks, and the sight made Steve grin for some reason.  Two fluffy bright red socks sticking out the end of cuff rolled jeans.  He’d never seen Tony sleep like this before. 

 

One leg was drawn up towards his waist, the other stretched out towards the foot of the bed.  The curve it created in his spine was played out in the jaunt of his hips, and the denim peaked away from his skin in a puckered triangular shape, revealing just a tantalising hint of pale shadow.

 

And the turn of those hips was doing something to Tony’s ass that Steve had never seen before, raising it up and pulling the denim _tight._

 

Steve, unable to do more than just appreciate the sight at the moment, shot his gaze upward before he did something his aching body would regret.

 

The t-shirt was thin, off white and obviously old. Its state of cleanliness told of previous trips to the workshop, but none since being washed recently, and that in itself told Steve all he needed to know about Tony’s mindset.

 

Steve couldn’t pick this shirt by sight like he could some others, like Tony’s ‘Stark Raving Mad’ tank.  He was pretty sure though, that he’d cleaned and dressed a small cut across Tony’s shoulder late one night, about a month ago…right where that slash in the material was gaping to reveal now blemish free skin.

 

Stretched out behind him was Tony’s left arm, his hand fisting in the loose blankets beneath. 

 

_Wanting._

And suddenly all Steve could think was _‘God, I’ve_ _caught someone special_ ’. No matter what the rest of the world, not to mention the object of his affection might think.  He had half a mind to just slide into the bed and curl around Tony as carefully as his battered body would allow.

He was sore and tired and Tony was warm and inviting and he could sit on him just as easily when they woke.

As he thought, Steve’s gaze caressed Tony’s other arm, following the smooth skin up to where hand was fisted under jaw – and that was when Steve noticed.

_Pain._

The grimace of bowed lips and darkly circled eyes, the focus of the pale and pinched face.

Steve took in Tony’s position again as a whole, and it hit him like a garden-shed wheelbarrow full of bricks.

Tony washurting himself. Punishing himself.

_He was sleeping on the arc reactor._

 

* * *

Even as he was reaching, Steve couldn’t keep his mind from all the other times that he’d seen Tony on his stomach, and his own rolled sickeningly with the sudden correlation.

 

_“It’s been longer than an half an hour hasn’t it?”_

And then Later _“Roll_ _onto your back, Tony..._ _”_

And _“...’m comf’t’ble here...”_

And _“No you’re not…”_

Steve wasn’t having that. _No-way no-how._

And _‘fire and damn and holy_ OW _’ –_ because that was probably not the brightest idea, but even with the gasping and okay, that was a yelp… he’d already turned Tony towards him so he supposed it was worth the effort, only –

 

“Steve!? What are you- Why. God, just-” and Tony was awake and attempting to sit up, that woefully apologetic look on his face again and how had Steve _not_ seen this earlier?

 

Shoving Tony back down against the mattress felt good, but only in so far as that it shut him up and wiped away that remorseful look, replacing it with a stunned wide eyed shock.

 

And okay, that was good, better…

 

Steve knew he was looming, using his 6’2 height and standing position to advantage and he knew how much Tony _hated_ that, but maybe it would make him listen.

And Steve was determined that Tony was going to listen and _hear_ him, as he spoke, “This?” he gestured at Tony, continuing angrily,  “You don’t get to do this. ”

 

Tony tried to lever himself up again, and it said a lot that despite Steve’s blatant attempt at intimidation, Tony was actually trying to move _towards_ him, rather than away as he tried to steal the conversation, “Huh? What? Steve I don’t… Are you sure you should be s-”

 

Steve pushed back again, slightly harder this time, his hand coming up to grasp Tony’s jaw firmly, both stopping any subsequent attempts at speech and directing the confused brown gaze to his own blue as he said,  – “No.  That’s what this is all about. I am fine. I _will be fine._  None of this was your fault - ”

 

He dragged Tony’s gaze back when it tried to skitter away from his, repeating forcefully, face only centimetres from Tony’s own, “Not. Your. Fault.”

 

Steve could almost see the shutters come up as the last vestiges of sleep cleared from Tony’s mind and the immediate deflection started, Tony demanding, “Get off! You know I don’t lik- ”

Steve, who would usually be the first to capitulate, hating bullies and all their tactics, actually pushed down just that little harder, pinning Tony helplessly against the mattress, retrained, trapped as he cut across him, “You know what _I_ don’t like? I don’t like the man I love deliberately hurting himself!”

 

That seemed to shut Tony up for a moment, his mouth opening and closing with nothing being released.

 

And then he exploded.

 

“What the FUCK are you talking about?! I’m don’t hurt myself! And let me the fuck go! ” he snarled wildly, but didn’t struggle, and that perhaps told Steve a hell of a lot more than he’d known two seconds ago.

 

The punishment was subconscious, but subconsciously Tony knew what he was doing and also knew he shouldn’t.   And that was why he was just _letting_ Steve restrain him.

 

The guilt was where it all stemmed from.

 

The guilt was what he had to address, and Steve, not exactly one for beating around the bush said carefully, “ _You_ didn’t do this to me. It wasn’t you’re fault I got hurt. No on-”

 

“I have no idea what you’re talking ab-” Tony tried to cut him off, his eyes angry and heated beneath Steve’s own.

 

Steve just continued as if there hadn’t been any interruptions, “-blames you. No one. You did what you had to do. You did the right thing.  You did what you were traine-”

 

Tony scowled and growled, “Leave it be. It’s over. Steve, ju-”

 

Steve just shook his head, mildly apologetic as he went on, “What you were trained to do. You couldn’t have known, _didn’t know_ what would happen to me. It wasn’t your-“

 

“I d-  I don’t know wha- I don’t want to talk about this. Let me go.” It was different this time, an almost pleading note behind the anger, a widening and deepening of brown that Steve was pretty sure he’d happily drown in one day.

 

He didn’t stop. “It wasn’t your fault. You made the only decision you could have. Civilians always come first.”

 

A tongue rasped out over dry lips and Tony argued, “Nope. Next time? Fuck the civilian, I’m catching you. Ne- Next time.”

 

Tony’s eyes were suddenly almost more white than brown, and Steve could see the dam breaking. Just one more push.  He pressed his lips to the clammy palm secure in his grasp, noting the minute vibrations.

 

And pushed.

 

“You did the right thing. I’m proud of you.”

 

And the wall came tumbling down.

 

“Pr- You’re PROUD of me!? I almost got you killed, I almost- ” Tony wrenched his hands free, mostly succeeding because Steve let him and they flew through the air, fists curled with helpless rage and _so much guilt._

But they settled gently against Steve’s chest, instead of raining down fury and disquiet.

 

Steve blinked slowly, reading what Tony was silently saying. Silently begging.

 

_Tell me it wasn’t my fault. MAKE me believe._

God, but he was trying 

 

“It wasn’t your fault.” Steve said again.

 

And this time Tony argued back.  “How can it be anyone else’s? You called and I didn’t help!”

 

And Steve wanted to smile, he truly did. Tony was saying – _I understand you’ve got an alternate theory. Show me your evidence. Convince me._

But he didn’t smile, because he wasn’t much for science, and proving theories.  He _was_ the experiment. He didn’t conduct them.

 

He’d try anyway though, anything to clear the shadows.  “That man would be dead if you hadn’t saved him. What about his family? It’s what we do Tony.”

 

Tony harrumphed beneath him, body language screaming ‘ _Your evidence is weak’,_ as he replied, _“_ That’s nice. Good for him.  I’m not blaming myself for him living.  Just- You. You could have died. What about _your_ family? What abo-”

 

He cut himself off, but Steve was sure his next words would have been ‘What about _me?_ ’ and his heart damn near broke all over again. But that’s not what this was about. It wasn’t about them. It was about Tony’s completely misguided need to assume _guilt_ for things that were in no way his fault.

 

He remembered what Tony had said only moments ago. _“How can it be anyone else’s?”_

Steve was contemplative as he spoke, “Maybe… Maybe it was Thor’s fault. He didn’t catch me either. Or Clint? He had about four seconds. Surely that’s long enough to string an arrow rope. Natasha? Bruce? ”

 

Tony looked justifiably horrified.

 

He sounded equally so as he replied, “What? Are you serious!? Thor was busy wrestling that _thing_ and Clint! Clint would have needed longer than that to make the decision! How can you possibly think that this was their fault?!”

 

It was worrying that a man as smart as Tony didn’t cotton onto his blatant manipulation, but Steve already knew that the more distressed Tony got, the lower his people skills seemed to get. He brought the comparison into the blinding lime-light, “Oh. So we can’t blame them, but we can blame you?”

 

Tony was silent for a moment, and then he glared at Steve, whether for actually making sense or simply catching him out, Steve wasn’t sure.  He leaned towards the latter when Tony replied after a moment, “Yes! I should have been able to do something!”

 

Talk about delusions of grandeur.

 

But it wasn’t that. Not really.  Steve was pretty sure it was a complete _inability to accept failure._

It was one of the things that Steve usually admired about his partner.  It had led to the arc-reactor, Ironman, New York not being nuked off the planet….

 

Right now though, it was just frustrating the crap out of him.

 

“What!? What could have you done?! Been in two places at once!?” Steve demanded, trying to make Tony _see._

Tony most certainly _Did. Not. See._   “Yes! No- I don’t know! Maybe.”

 

Steve felt like hitting his head against the wall. It would probably have been less painful.  He tried another approach, “I’d have done the exact same thing.”

 

 _That_ seemed to get Tony’s attention, “You’d have let me fall?”

 

God, and this was just what Steve had been thinking about earlier. And been thinking that he never wanted to think about it.  He answered anyway, honestly, “Yes. A thousand times. And it would damn near kill me, if not properly kill me…every single time. It’s what we do. Who we are. We’re for the people. I wouldn’t _want_ you to save me if it meant we deliberately let that man die. I don’t want that to be our legacy. ”

 

 “I couldn’t- wouldn’t… I couldn’t let him die. Not even for you. Especially not for you.” Tony breathed, in agreement more than an actual interruption, but it was _exactly_ what Steve had been waiting to hear.

 

“There was no choice. You didn’t _make_ a choice. You didn’t let me fall. You didn’t _let_ me do anything. You did the only thing you possibly could. You were perfect.”  It was said slowly, with clear conviction.

 

Tony _had_ to know this. To _believe_ it.

 

“I- I guess I was.” It was quiet. Introspective. Unsure. But honest.

 

Steve sighed a gusty huff of relieve and all but face planted onto the mattress, half engulfing Tony beneath his aching body.

 

And Tony, being Tony, didn’t say anything, didn’t cheapen what Steve had done for him by making comment. His arm, at least the one not weighed down by several pounds of super solder, simply looped over Steve’s back and brushed up into short blond locks, carding through in a half massage/ half caress.

 

And then, because Steve was a masochist he added, not bothering to move his nose from where it was tucked against Tony’s throat, “And just as some extra food for thought….you know, future pondering and such?”

 

Tony sighed, but capitulated easily with a murmur that clearly meant ‘go on’…

 

Steve pressed his lips against salt tanged skin, a gentle swipe of his tongue ensuring he had and amount of attention that may have been wandering as he explained carefully, “Just because something goes wrong, doesn’t necessarily mean that someone has to shoulder the blame.  No, don’t speak…just think about it for me. Some things just happen and it’s no one’s fault.”

 

Tony stayed silent, and Steve hoped he was thinking it over. 

 

He was probably just falling asleep instead, but well…that was okay too.

 

And then something else occurred to him, because of course… “Tony, If you answer anything other than ‘Yes, Steve’ to this next one, I’m going to be so very, very upset with you. Got it?”

 

Tony, true to form, answered promptly, with a serious, “Yes, Steve.”

 

“ _Tony-”_ Steve warned.

 

“Yes, St- Okay, okay! I’m listening.” Tony dropped the cheekiness when he felt Steve prepare to draw up onto one elbow, to better shoot him the ‘Serious Look’ and Tony didn’t want to aggravate his lover’s aches any more than he already had.

 

It was good enough for Steve, who settled back into his nice little crook, his fingers idly tapping the same disjointed rhythm against the arc reactor that Tony himself used when upset, but his voice was beyond firm when he spoke, “You don’t _ever_ hurt yourself. For any reason. I don’t care what you’ve done, you don’t hurt yourself. Understood?”

 

Tony could have argued. Could have denied knowing what he’d been doing. Could have fallen back on the honesty of the subconscious defence.

 

“Yes, Steve” was all he said.

* * *

 

An hour and a half later and the room was dark, the last glimmers of dying sunlight long having faded.

The wind had picked up outside, a whistling howl rushing across the sleek smooth lines of the tower, the poignant weight of the approaching storm a strangely soothing balm after the emotional drain of the earlier distress.

The atmospheric tension of the building thunderstorm went unnoticed by the half cocooned lovers, curled beneath a quiet haze of tranquillity and lost in immersion of each other.

Steve blinked slowly into the strangely consuming blackness, not truly awake, but not yet asleep.

He could hear Tony’ soft snuffled breathing from the just above his ear, tiny puffs of warm air ghosting over the delicate shell, just barely ruffling his hair.  

_How was it, that being with Tony always managed to make him feel like he owned the world, but at the same time, didn’t have a damn clue what to do with it?_

_You win some, you lose some….and Steve felt like today had been a win. Even if Tony had just surrendered instead of being convinced._

_He’d won this battle, and some days, like today, he thought he might just win the war._

The idea of _not_ winning the proverbial war, of Tony _not_ coming to believe in himself and the way others felt about him, was like a punch to the stomach and Steve automatically drew Tony’s sleeping form closer.

Only, apparently he was not as asleep as Steve had believed, if the soft mewl of indignation was anything to go by.

Smiling, Steve pulled Tony even closer, his lips chasing away the remaining dissatisfaction, a smile quirking against his own when his fingers trailed a skittering path under soft cotton and up over smooth skin, settling against warm metal and even warmer skin.

As the kiss broke with an unspoken promise of a raincheck, and Steve settled his head back against the shoulder below his, Tony curled one arm up over Steve’s shoulder, and the other wormed up against his chest, palm settling flat over Steve’s heart.

Their legs were already hopelessly tangled, but Tony still managed to squirm closer, the soft fluff of red socks tickling at Steve’s shins as Tony wriggled his toes.

Steve’s eyes dipped shut. 

The cloying inky darkness was beautiful, freeing in a way… yet, it wasn’t right, wasn’t complete, and Steve shifted slightly, lowering his shoulder and sliding away just _slightly._

The blackness broke, shot through with the hazy glow of muted blue, and Steve sighed with pure contentment.

_Perfect._

* * *

* * *

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So - Angsty enough?
> 
> Little snippet added at end because 'Call_me_Claire' wanted cuddles. Who am I to argue with the needs of the readers :)
> 
>  
> 
> Hope you all enjoyed and I'd love to hear what you thought.


	3. Anguish

ANGUISH

**1.**

**_Severe mental or physical pain or suffering._ **

* * *

_Cloudy brown liquid puddled from smashed china, a spidery path snaking across the workbench and dripping to the floor below, a steady, ‘plink’, ‘plink’ ‘plink’, ringing loudly into the quiet of the stale workshop air._

_There was a broken mug._

_Bright red letters, read across the room, declaring that, ‘Genius doesn’t work on deca-‘…the rest was lost under broken shards._

_A gift._

_This one from Clint. Or perhaps Bruce._

_Steve’s wasn’t sure why the mug had grabbed his attention. Why it was holding it so firmly._

_What was so fascinating about a smashed coffee mug?_

_It wasn’t like it was precious, Tony ha-_

_Tony._

_The subconsciously provided fog of avoidance lifted as the anchoring all-importance of the smashed mug started to tear away._

_He stepped forwards, eyes riveted on the small pool of coffee, determined to avoid the looming reality._

_There was a crunch beneath his foot; the easily recognisable sound of glass being ground into concrete._

_Steve’s vision slammed back into agonising perspective._

_And suddenly?_

_That damn mug was the least broken thing in the room._

_Broken glass was strewn all across the floor, shards and chunks and jagged pieces glinting in pools of spilt oil._

_The glass could only be explained by the mutilated carcass of Tony’s computer monitors, lying in a mangled heap of plastic, metal and wiring on the far side of the work bench._

_At the back of the workshop, looming over the room was the armour’s pre-disassembly unit. Its sleek lines and gracefully extended form was a wreck, half torn down. Twisted, rent arms of tortured metal and bright copper wiring, dangling at disconcerting angles, one on the floor, completely separated from its body._

_The storage shelving to the right had contributed to a majority of the chaos, innumerable plastic boxes ripped from their tracks and relocated forcefully about the room. Splinters of plastic missing from the destroyed boxes, and their varied contents were scattered about in a mess of fuses, wiring coils, small tools, solvent tubes, soldering rods, batteries, nuts, bolts, screws, clamps and hundreds of other items that Steve was too frantic to automatically label._

_A hint of red and gold caught his eyes, and Steve’s breath stuttered to a complete halt._

_A gauntlet, supposedly present for Tony to run a diagnostic on, but mainly because the genius found it comforting to tinker._

_Steve could see its inner-circuitry._

_An intricate mess of cherished design rendered completely destroyed. The screwdriver obscenely impaled through the weakest wrist joint was a whole new level of terrifying symbolism and Steve couldn’t look at it any longer, but was having trouble tearing his gaze away._

_If not even the armour had been spared…_

_Unable to stop it, Steve’s gaze swept over to the bots charging stations._

_Three in a row, beds, essentially, each designed to suit its unique owner’s eccentricities to a tee._

_Mangled, ravaged and torn asunder._

* * *

* * *

 

“ _Alright..._ Who put the empty milk carton back in the fridge?”

 

Tony looked up lazily, his gaze raking over the soft sweats and white cotton t-shirt that should have been altogether too modest to be so attractive. 

 

The barely mentionable flush and dancing eyes said Steve knew exactly what Tony was thinking about, and the too innocent _flex_ of those ridiculously broad shoulders, said what _he_ thought about _that_.

 

And then Steve’s pointedly raised eyebrow and nod to the still open fridge pulled his lover’s attention away from fantasy-land and back to the question.

Tony glanced down at his almost empty mug, where the last remnants of the milk were floating around. Not missing a beat, he lay the blame squarely on someone who wasn’t present, answering “Uh, -Clint?” with a small shrug.

 

Steve wasn’t fooled, not even for a second if his eyebrows were telling the truth, but with a fond sigh of exasperation he tossed the empty carton and retuned to putting away the last of the breakfast condiments from the bench.

Tony’s smug little smile dropped back to the pile of paperwork slowly starting to spread across the table in front of him, and he scrawled his signature on…whatever it was Pepper wanted his signature on.

Steve started the sink running with almost too hot water, noting the automatic addition of detergent by the slow formation of fluffy white suds across the surface. He padded back over to the table and started to stack up his and Tony’s breakfast dishes.

 

Tony looked up quizzically, saw what Steve was doing and rolled his eyes as he teased, “We do have a dishwasher you know.  At least, that’s what I’ve been told…”   Almost as an afterthought he clutched his coffee mug pathetically against his chest, mocking eyes suddenly going wide and beseeching, in the hope that Steve would have pity and refill the mug a third time.

 

Liberating a sticky marmalade encrusted knife from beneath a pile of previously white documents, Steve shot back, “What can I say? I’m an old fashioned kinda guy.…” he raked his hand through Tony’s hair, tugging lightly until Tony’s head tilted back and Steve could drop a kiss on quirking lips.  

 

Slipping the mug from distracted fingers, the blond pulled away from the forming pout, adding, “…and two barrels is more than enough caffeine, even for sleep deprived geniuses…”

 

Steve could feel Tony’s gaze as it followed him across the room, and dropping his small armful carefully into the sink, he reached for a cloth. Speaking without looking, he said, “Stop it with the eyes. I’m not even looking.  You can’t melt me with those sad droopy pools of liquid chocolate if I don’t look. ”

 

Tony dropped the rebuffed puppy dog eyes with a sigh, reaching for the small bundle of personal mail items that had been couriered over.

 

The sound of gentle splashing and the soft clink of china filled the room, underpinned by the shuffling of paper, and occasional soft tearing of an envelope.

 

_Boring, boring, God- those sweats, Pepper can deal with that one, damn those sweats, bor-_

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of you know. Washing up _can_ be quite challenging. I mean, I could _try_ to teach you how if you like. After everything you’ve taught me…” Steve teased, hands stilling on a plate beneath the water as he waited for the inevitably sarcastic retort.

 

Only there was no reply, and he noticed that even the gentle rustle of paper had stopped.

 

Steve looked over his shoulder to see what could have commandeered his lover’s attention from his rather obvious, although welcome, glances.

 

Somehow, in the time it had taken to wash one dirty plate, Tony’s skin had bled pale, to a waxy ashen-grey, and drawn white lips trembled with unnamed shock. His lively brown eyes were blown huge, iris all but invisible around dark pupils.  His hands, as steady as any surgeons, were, honest to god, _shaking_ around the letter he was clenching. 

 

Steve didn’t know what to say, what to do, but instinctively he stepped closer and at the movement, Tony’s eyes snapped to his. There was a loud bang as the chair was over-turned, and dragged with an entangled foot, and then Tony was free and running.

 

By the time Steve had dropped the slippery plate, and spun around, Tony was already out of the kitchen, and somehow, he beat Steve to the elevator in the corridor. 

 

“Tony!?” his concerned shout was cut off as the elevator doors slid closed before he could reach them and Steve was left staring at the sleek metal door.

 

“JARV-” he started, but the disembodied voice was already answering.

 

“The elevator is destined for the workshop, Captain”.

 

Steve cursed at his slowness, _of course_ Tony would head for his safe haven…where else would he run?

 

He ignored the little voice in his head that said, _‘to me’._

* * *

The emergency stairs were not often used, thankfully, but Steve knew the way, and within seconds he was racing down the narrow stairway, long strides missing whole cases at times as he ignored exit after exit.

 

The unmarked door bashed open against his shoulder as he raced through, hitting the wall behind with an almighty crunch and bounced off, but Steve didn’t care, because the workshop door was closed before him, the windows tinted darkly.

 

Steve knew Tony was in there though, from the crashing, smashing and almost hysterical yelling.

* * *

 

“Tony!?” he called, punching his code against the doors entry keypad.

 

Only, it blinked red – entry denied.

 

A wordless bark of frustration escaped as Steve forced himself to slow down slightly, and re-entered his code.

 

_Red - Entry denied._

He thumped a fist against the door, speaking loudly to be heard over the angry smashing and shattering noises of the room beyond, “Tony? Let me in! Tony! JARVIS!?”

 

The AI sounded audibly _concerned,_ which should have blown Steve’s mind, but he was too busy focusing on the words, “I am sorry Captain, Sir has forbidden _anyone_ to enter, I cannot help you.”

 

“Tony!? God, just…Open the door. Please. Please op- OPEN IT!” Steve was begging, pleading, unable to even think straight with the sound of Tony’s furious devastationringing clearly in his ears.

 

There was no reply from within the room, other than the continued sounds of rage fuelled destruction. 

 

“Captain, I can- Sir is extremely upset, his vitals indicate enormous distress… _however,_ he has yet to do any significant harm to himself” JARVIS tried his best to reassure Steve.

 

Steve didn’t find the idea of Tony doing _any_ damage to himself reassuring, _significant_ or not.

 

The captain slumped against the door for a moment, asking, “JARVIS, do you know what happened? What this is about? There was a piece of paper- a letter or something…”

 

JARVIS replied, as promptly as possible, “No Captain, I have been unable to ascertain the cause behind this behaviour…”

 

There was a particularly loud bang, followed by the sound of glass shattering and Tony audibly cried out, a mixture of garbled cursing and adamant refusal.

 

Steve shoved against the door again as he spoke, voice almost shaking as he begged, “Tony? Tony, please!”

 

It was as futile as ever, the door didn’t budge and Tony didn’t answer beyond an enraged shriek and another thud.

 

Steve looked to the ceiling, his hands going to his hair, pulling roughly as he pleaded, “Please JARVIS, _please_. You have to do _something. There has to be something._ A loop hole, a- _something._ Just get me in there!”

 

“I am trying _._  I can’t, Sir has expressly forbid me to….” The AI fell silent for a second before continuing, his vocals more controlled, precise, “Captain? Any loophole in the coding or demand would have been put there by Tony hims-” and JARVIS was suddenly cut off.

 

“JARVIS? JARVIS! God – Tony! ”Steve was suddenly frantic, JARVIS was silent, the sounds of smashing and screaming were not slowing, and he could hear a ragged, raw quality to Tony’s furious shouting that scared something loose, from deep within him.

 

The rebound reverberated throughout his whole body, his shoulder was numb from the force of slamming into the reinforced blast doors, but Steve did it again anyway.  The door shuddered with an almighty boom, but didn’t budge, and showed no damage from his best efforts.

 

He wasn’t getting through with brute force, and their only other heavy hitters, The Hulk and Thor, were both hours away, even if Steve could think clearly enough to contact them. 

 

Steve could not get the door open, through either physical force or electronic assistance. JARVIS was suddenly non-communicado and Tony’s wasn’t replying, wasn’t even acknowledging any of his lovers yelling, pleading or demanding. 

 

Helplessness welled up inside him, seething below the confusion. Anger wanted to be heard as well, but it was completely overshadowed by gut wrenching fear.

 

And then everything went silent.

 

Steve’s heart stopped, and hope flooded his mind as he called, “Tony? Can you hear me? Please, _please_ open the door.”

 

When there was no answer, all Steve felt was dread.

 

_Tony bleeding out, crushed beneath twisted metal and shattered glass._

_Ironman suited up and leaving, uncontrollable with devastated, furious rage._

Theories and ideas ran through Steve’s mind, each worse than the one before and Steve called hopefully for JARVIS, yet there was still no answer.

 

And then he remembered the last thing JARVIS had said before he was cut off – “That any loophole would have been put there by Tony himself”.

 

God, _he was so stupid._

 

Cursing himself, Steve started feeling along the seals in the wall, his gaze tight and certain, _because he couldn’t be wrong._

There _had_ to be an invisible bio-lock panel, because his bio signature opened _every_ room in the tower.

 

 _Tony had made it so Steve could always get to him_.

 

Only, he couldn’t find the panel, his fingers finding no trace of the tiny indent that would reveal the pad. 

 

And then out of nowhere, loud in the stifling silence, JARVIS’s mechanically emphasised voice said, “Recalibrating bio-lock signature- workshop two” and a soft blue light flashed in the corner of his eye and Steve spun, even as it faded away again.

 

JARVIS, had helped him, without actually helping him.

 

Steve wasn’t really conscious of his muttered, “Thankyou, thankyou, thankyou!” as he lunged for the panel, slamming his hand against the locking signature and pleading for it to work.

 

And then blue flashed around his palm and Steve recognised ‘JARVIS encouraged urgency’ in the way the usually gentle whisper of the workshop door was a hissing whoosh as it slammed open.

* * *

 

Cloudy brown liquid puddled from smashed china, a spidery path snaking across the workbench and dripping to the floor below, a steady, ‘plink’, ‘plink’ ‘plink’, ringing loudly into the quiet of the stale workshop air.

 

There was a broken mug.

 

Bright red letters, read across the room, declaring that, ‘Genius doesn’t work on deca-‘…the rest was lost under broken shards.

 

A gift.

 

This one from Clint. Or perhaps Bruce.

 

Steve’s wasn’t sure why the mug had grabbed his attention. Why it was holding it so firmly.

 

What was so fascinating about a smashed coffee mug?

 

It wasn’t like it was precious, Tony ha-

 

Tony.

 

The subconsciously provided fog of avoidance lifted as the anchoring all-importance of the smashed mug started to tear away.

 

He stepped forwards, eyes riveted on the small pool of coffee, determined to avoid the looming reality.

 

There was a crunch beneath his foot; the easily recognisable sound of glass being ground into concrete.

 

Steve’s vision slammed back into agonising perspective.

 

And suddenly?

 

That damn mug was the least broken thing in the room.

 

Broken glass was strewn all across the floor, shards and chunks and jagged pieces glinting in pools of spilt oil.  

 

The glass could only be explained by the mutilated carcass of Tony’s computer monitors, lying in a mangled heap of plastic, metal and wiring on the far side of the work bench.

 

At the back of the workshop, looming over the room was the armour’s pre-disassembly unit. Its sleek lines and gracefully extended form was a wreck, half torn down. Twisted, rent arms of tortured metal and bright copper wiring, dangling at disconcerting angles, one on the floor, completely separated from its body.

 

The storage shelving to the right had contributed to a majority of the chaos, innumerable plastic boxes ripped from their tracks and relocated forcefully about the room. Splinters of plastic missing from the destroyed boxes, and their varied contents were scattered about in a mess of fuses, wiring coils, small tools, solvent tubes, soldering rods, batteries, nuts, bolts, screws, clamps and hundreds of other items that Steve was too frantic to automatically label.

 

A hint of red and gold caught his eyes, and Steve’s breath stuttered to a complete halt.

 

A gauntlet, supposedly present for Tony to run a diagnostic on, but mainly because the genius found it comforting to tinker.

 

Steve could see its inner-circuitry. 

 

An intricate mess of cherished design rendered completely destroyed. The screwdriver obscenely impaled through the weakest wrist joint was a whole new level of terrifying symbolism and Steve couldn’t look at it any longer, but was having trouble tearing his gaze away.

 

If not even the armour had been spared…

 

Unable to stop it, Steve’s gaze swept over to the bots charging stations. 

 

Three in a row, beds, essentially, each designed to suit its unique owner’s eccentricities to a tee.

 

Mangled, ravaged and torn asunder.

 

And then his gaze passed over dark hair and a flash of pale skin…and he didn’t know how he’d noticed anything else first.

 

Tony was almost perfectly in the centre of the room, the eye of the storm as it were, strangely flawless against the backdrop of the surrounding devastation.

 

The billionaire who filled every room he entered, drew all eyes with the sheer size of his personality, was _larger than life,_ and Steve’s mind kept getting caught on how small he looked.   Tony was on the ground, curled tightly into his own grasp, as if his arms were all that remained to hold himself together.

 

Steve could tell, just by looking, that Tony was the most broken thing in the room.

_Shattered, traumatized and irrevocably damaged._

Steve dropped to his knees, not remembering moving, but uncaring of anything except Tony.

 

And yet all he could do was stare. 

 

The dark tousled head was partially concealed, tucked down between shoulders, arms and chest, but Steve could still recognise the washed-out complexion of pure exhaustion.  He could see that Tony had emotionally and physically exhausted himself into oblivion – brown eyes were clenched closed, and Steve could tell that he was asleep.

 

There was no relaxation in this sleep though, no escape; the tormented anguish of whatever Tony was trying to avoid was palpable even across his smooth face.

 

Steve could count on one hand the number times he’d seen Tony cry, but the drying stains beneath closed eyes had a blotchy messiness that spoke of hysteria rather than therapeutic venting.  

 

 

The tiny ball Tony had curled himself into screamed of a tangible need to block the world out, to protect himself from what could not be fought, to deny reality. 

 

 “ _Oh, sweeth…”_ Steve didn’t really finish the whisper of compassion, barely more than a sigh parting his lips, and he reached for the letter still clenched in Tony’s fist, not even considering whether or not he should, but simply easing it away, replacing crumpled paper with his own warm fingers, wrapping them almost fully around Tony’s hand.

 

 Looking down, he read.

 

_‘Mr Stark, as per his wishes, it is with deep sorrow that we-’_

Steve’s eyes picked out three more phrases,

_“United States Military”,_

_‘Lieutenant Colonel James R Rhodes’_

_‘Killed In Action’._

Steve’s heart dropped out the bottom of his stomach and his chest squeezed. 

_Rhodey._

 

God…

* * *

 

 

Steve sat still for a second, just staring at the letter and holding Tony’s hand.

 

His own grief was a heavy blanket of sorrow and anger that ate away at him, tearing at his heart and tearing at his eyes. Rhodey had easily grown past only being important to Steve because of Tony, and was well into becoming important to Steve period. 

 

And behind it all where distant memories of the loss of another best friend named James.

 

His grief for Tony eclipsed his own though.

 

Tony, who’d lived so long without a true family.

 

Father, Mother and ‘Uncle-Obie’, all undeserving of his heart, and only now, finally starting to learn and believe that real family wouldn’t betray him, wouldn’t hurt him…

 

Tony, who resisted his emotions at the best of times, who had never been able to deal with loss.

 

Bury it, yes.

Deal? Not so much.

 

And Rhodey, the very first of Tony’s chosen family. 

 

The one he’d trusted and loved longer than any other.

 

_Gone._

* * *

 

Knowing they couldn’t stay on the floor among the shattered glass forever, no matter how fitting it seemed, Steve slowly moved. 

 

Unable to just leave it, not willing to give it back to Tony and not knowing what else to do, he stuffed the letter into his back pocket, and bending, Steve gently scooped Tony into his arms. Lifting carefully, wary of the tiny flecks of bloodied skin, and already bruising hands, he cradled the limp body protectively against his chest as he got to his feet.  

 

He felt it the instant Tony woke, all pliancy vanishing, to be replaced with rigid tension that slowly bled away as he focused.  Steve waited, still and patient as brown eyes opened and blinked slowly, huge and anguished as they stared beyond their current surroundings, to where, Steve knew not.     

 

Tony might have been awake, but he didn’t speak, and Steve didn’t press, able to see that emotional and physical exhaustion had sapped his lover of any strength he’d had left.  Dispute his apparent exhaustion, Tony still managed to lift one hand to settle protectively over the arc reactor, which in itself half broke Steve’s heart.

 

Tony hadn’t hidden the reactor from him for so long, and to have it concealed now…but he was vulnerable and hurting and Steve understood.

 

Besides, Tony lolling his head against Steve’s chest and sluggishly looping the other arm around his neck to pull himself closer revealed where his trust truly lay. 

 

Steve murmured softly, he had no idea what he was saying, he didn’t even think it was words- just general noises of comfort, and soon Tony was asleep again.  Steve wanted him to stay that way, where there was no pain and no grief.

 

Just for now, just for a little while.

 

They entered the elevator and ascended the tower to the penthouse, the door was already open and Steve padded into their bedroom.

 

Tony was absolutely filthy; oil and grease matting his hair and smearing his clothes and skin, red flecks marred his hands and there was a line of blood staining one shoulder, from where a shard of glass seemed to have sliced shallowly across his arm.

 

Their sheets were cream.

 

Steve didn’t care.

 

He gently set them down against the mattress, and Tony stirred with a pitiful whimper as Steve tried to pull away, intending on getting a washcloth. The blond immediately slipped into the bed and wrapped himself as fully around Tony as best he could, murmuring soothingly as he worked at blocking out the entire wretched world. 

 

Tony slept.

* * *

 

As they lay there in the darkened room, Tony sheltered mindlessly from the oncoming storm and Steve thought.

 

He thought about how he was going to help Tony cope. About how he was going to have to force Tony to let him in.

 

Because he knew Tony would hide away in shadows and booze and lick his wounds.

 

But they woudn’t heal.

 

And he would – he’d sit on Tony and demand to be let in.

 

And Tony might have been among the most stubborn, obstinate and mule-headed, but Steve wouldn’t lose him.

 

_Couldn’t lose him._

 

He was contemplating how he was going to get Tony to eat, once he’d woken in an hour or two, when there was a distant knock at the outer door.

 

He thought about ignoring it, but he didn’t need Clint dropping in via air-vent, and if either he or the others had seen the trashed workshop, they’d be worried and Steve didn’t need any more upset people to deal with.

 

Besides, Tony was going to need them all to get through this.

 

He pulled away slowly, glad when only a wrinkled brow answered his movement. Smoothing Tony’s oil-slick hair back, he dropped a kiss to warm skin before padding from their bedroom, pulling the door mostly shut behind him.

 

Stopping at the hallway door, Steve prepared himself to deal with the loss and upset once he’d explained. 

 

He’d barely even opened the door and James Rhodes shoved past him and into their suite. 

* * *

 

Stunned disbelief, warring with encroaching hope spread through Steve as Rhodey spun to face him, already speaking, “Please – _please_ tell me that I made it in ti-”

 

One look at Steve’s shocked face and Rhodey’s fell, his hands coming up to rest against his face in dismay as he smoothly added, “ – I didn’t, did I? – He got the letter.”  

 

Still reeling with equal parts shock and delight, Steve pulled the crumpled piece of paper from his back pocket and Rhodey’s hands fell with his quiet exclamation of “Well.  Fuck.”  

 

Anything else he said was drowned by Steve dragging him in for a hug.

 

Steve pulled back a moment later, his hand resting on Rhodey’s shoulder as his relieved smile faded.

 

Rhodey saw it and his ‘getting hugged by Captain America grin’ sobered as he said quietly, “Where is he?” 

 

Indicating the bedroom over his shoulder, Steve asked, “Do you want me to-”. 

 

Shaking his head, Rhodey replied, “I’ve got this. You did your job – I’ll do mine…” and he moved determinedly towards the door and the drama that no doubt lay beyond.

 

Steve, his hand resting on the door knob, asked, “Do you mind if I stay?”

 

Rhodey seeing the overwhelming reluctance to leave, bright in the blue gaze, simply shrugged and said, “Didn’t imagine you’d go…and hadn’t planned on asking.”

 

Steve pushed open the door, and Rhodey stepped through.

* * *

 

Without Steve to curl against, Tony had curled back in on himself and it was damn near enough to break a strong man’s heart.   

 

He was so small in the huge bed – pale and broken and raw.

 

Bruised, paper thin eyelids fluttered, stark black eyelashes thrown into harsh relief against chalky white skin.  Tony twitched in his sleep and Rhodey stumbled closer, settling his weight on the mattress by the curled form.

 

Reaching out, he brushed away the lock of damp hair that had trailed onto a pale cheek. “God fucking dammit.” Rhodey said, the sight of his best friend’s abject misery breaking him.

 

And then, “Dammit, Tony…” the last was almost a sigh as he looked over his shoulder to an equally wrecked looking Steve Rogers.

 

Unable to put it off even a second more, especially not for purely selfish reasons, Rhodey reached out and gently shook the closest shoulder, his voice louder as he said, “Tony? Tony…Come on, wake up genius.”

 

Tony’s reluctance to wake was obvious, and the reason equally so, but eventually Rhodey’s persistent voice broke through and Tony turned slightly with a grimace as he slowly opened his eyes.   

 

For an instant he just stared, dark eyes clearly unseeing of anything other than his own muddled, anguished thoughts.

 

Then he focused on the looming face and his eyes widened, then almost immediately narrowed as he blinked, longing warring with disbelief as he started to drop his gaze.

 

Rhodey, the original, and possibly the best, at ‘reading Tony’, shook his head and said, “You’re not dreaming, you ignoramus.  As if your mediocre mind could dream up anything as perfect as me…”   

 

Gaze snapping back up, Tony’s eyes darting to Steve in the doorway and then back to Rhodey, his stare showing pure unadulterated relief for an instant, before he snapped back, “Oh, shut up.”  

 

Rhodey replied “Shut up? Shut up!? – That’s seriously the bes-” 

 

Tony’s abandoned laughter, infused with slight hysteria, interrupted him and Rhodey swatted at him as he continued, ‘No – I’m serious, you can’t laugh – that’s pitiful. ‘Shut up’ I don’t-”  

 

He didn’t even seem to realise that laughter had turned to tears, Tony, still smiling despite the welling of his eyes as the emotional upheaval caught up.

 

Rhodey’s grin faltered for only a second before he said, “C’mere dumbass-” and dragged Tony into his embrace, insanely grateful for the returned hug as Tony let go and just accepted that somehow his world hadn’t been ripped out from beneath his feet.  

 

Tony, because he was Tony, wasn’t quiet even as he tried to stifle his relieved sobbing gasps, sputtering, “You- You don’t get to do this again. I know – hypercritical. Afghanistan. I know. But you don’t get to- You-”  

 

Rhodey soothed him with promises and apologies and eventually the tears dried up, the laughter died and Tony fell silent, simply sitting in the hug for a moment more before thumping his head against Rhodey’s chest and pulling back.

 

Awkward silence that really wasn’t all that awkward filled the room for a moment, as the three men, two in the bed and one looking on, stared at each other.

 

Finally, Tony huffed and tumbled his way out of the tangled sheets, saying, “I’ve seen how these near death experiences plus a bed culminates in all the movies…and sorry buttercup, but Steve gets very jealous…” he breezed past Steve who was ruefully shaking his head, and flopped onto their sofa in the main living area.

 

With an eye roll that only Tony could instigate, Rhodey got to his feet and followed, although he did a double take as he entered the better lit area and could actually see Tony properly, asking “What the hell have you been up to? Looks like you took a bath in motor oi- _Tony_ … _is that blood?_ ”

 

Tony stared at the darkening red flecks and smears on his arms, and actually, his hands were kind of sore…

And it all came flooding back, _god,_ what had he done?

 

“JARVIS!? Is th-” Tony’s voice was frantic as he leapt to his feet.

 

JARVIS, as always, knew what Tony needed, “Everyone is fine, Sir. Although you made _quite_ a mess and there is much damage to be repaired. All power is disabled, You and Butterfingers are already attempting clean up and Dummy is making smoothies…”

 

Tony started to move towards the door, but found himself snagged around the waist and dragged down onto the sofa beside Steve, “Sit, JARVIS has things under control. I want to check your hands and Rhodey’s waiting for an explanation.”

 

The reminder that he wasn’t alone in the room drew Tony’s attention back to the two men, and the upset look on Rhodey’s face was quiet efficient at distracting him from Steve’s hands gathering his own closer, inspecting the torn and bruised skin.

 

“Aw, shit…don’t look at me like that. I’m fine…” The genius tried to insist although his stand was weakened by a flinch as Steve’s fingers trailed over a particularly nasty bruise.

 

Rhodey didn’t look convinced, he didn’t sound convinced either, as he replied, “You don’t look fine…Look at you! What the hell, Tone…  You look like something chewed you up and spat you out-”

 

Tony, not in any particular mood to be lectured, shot back, “Well sorry! I’d just found out that my best friend was dead – what did you expect me to do!?”

 

Rhodey stilled, a guilty look stealing over his face, because, in reality, this _was_ something he’d expect Tony to do under the present circumstances. Wiping a hand over his face, Rhodey nodded his apology, adding “Sorry, sorry…I know. I’m sorry. You just look – Well, you look like crap, Stark.”

 

Tony pulled his hands away from Steve, who just shrugged easily and reached out to pull Tony back against him, wrapping an arm about his shoulders. Tony rolled his eyes and huffed, but didn’t move as he replied, “I _never_ look like crap. Besides, you’ve seen me after worse.”

 

True.  So true, Rhodey thought, his mind flittering to _that_ birthday party. He’d definitely seen Tony worse. “What _did_ you do anyway?” he asked, realising that he hadn’t actually been told yet.

 

And yes, Tony was actually blushing. “I trashed the workshop.”

 

“What!? Your workshop? Tony!” Rhodey blustered, his voice not angry, but certainly upset. He knew what that workshop meant to Tony…it was his sanctuary, his haven, it was a place he felt accepted and protected and-

 

Oh.

 

Then with the hugging again.

 

* * *

 

 

In the end, the explanation was so simple, and so irrevocably _stupid_ that Tony just spluttered some more.

 

It was just a massive fucked up mess.

 

A clerical error of all things.

 

‘James P Rhodes’ had been KIA and somehow, between the field and the communications office, it had turned into ‘James R Rhodes’.

 

Someone had thought maybe it would be a good idea to let the ‘Dead Guy’ know that he was dead so he could inform his family of the fallacy – three days after the fact.  

 

Rhodey was still fuming over the fact that they’d had the insensitivity to just send a letter, and had plans to rip someone a new one.  And now, having seen what that letter had done to his best friend, he didn’t know if a new one would be justice enough.   

 

Eventually Rhodey had to leave.  

 

Tony quite obviously didn’t want him to, and just for that reason alone, neither did Rhodey.

 

But Rhodey had kind of stormed off-base without actually being off duty or signed out and he had a new one to rip, but he’d promised to return for dinner, and that he’d bring the pizza. 

 

He left Steve with the admonishment to, “Ring me if you have to. I mean it.”

 

And Tony with admonishment to “Listen to Steve. He’d Captain America.”

 

There had quite possibly been more hugs.

* * *

 

Within minutes of Rhodey leaving Tony had moved to head for his workshop, but the band of iron about his waist arrested his movements, and he suddenly found himself back in their bedroom, unable to remember if he’d walked or was carried.

 

Steve peeling his clothes off really hadn’t helped with the remembering, and before Tony managed to actually focus, he’d been stripped, had a damp cloth thrown at him, and been stuffed back into clothes, this time clean.

 

Somehow he was curled up in bed again, when where he really needed to be was downstairs.

 

“I have work to d-” he tried, testing Steve’s resolve for wriggle room.

 

“Sleep” came the droll answer.

 

Okay, so not much wriggle room then.

 

Maybe a specified amount of time would help his case, Tony thought, adding, “Just a few-” half watching as Steve slipped out of his own Tony-stained clothes.

 

“Sleep”, Mr. Short, sweet and to the point again.

 

Apparently not.  Time for putting forth of convincing arguments, Tony tried, “If I don-”

 

“Sleep” was the convincing rebuttal as Steve yanked on a pair of sweats, eyeing the few stains on the bed covers but not overly concerned.

 

Sensible questions perhaps, Tony thought, asking, “What if-”

 

“Sleep” the bed shook slightly as Steve joined him.

 

With a yawn, Tony just gave up his weak fight, snuggling closer, saying, “My hair -I’ll get you filt-”.

 

“Sleep” was the indulgent, if somewhat predictable answer and Tony fell silent, Steve cradling him close.

 

A moment later it was Steve who spoke, his voice soft, “You- I-. You should have come to me…”

 

Tony, his chest clenching at the half recognised underlay of hurt, tried to brush it off, answering, “Sleep?”

 

“Tony.” It wasn’t angry, or a challenge or an order. It was just a word.

 

Tony sighed, not sure what Steve wanted from him, but an apology he could handle, “I- I just, I’m sorry.”

 

“I know – just-” And it was there in what wasn’t said, the need that Steve had for Tony to trust him, to need him.

 

Tony had made a promise to himself when this started, when he’d first let Steve in, (when Steve had forcefully burrowed his way through the walls around Tony’s hart and then refused to budge); that he was going to at least try, and he had. He just had to make Steve understand that, “I’ve just always…dealt with stuff alone.”   

 

Tony was silent for so long that Steve thought that maybe that was it. That what always had been, was all there could be. And then Tony added, “…I think – no.  I knew though.”

 

Steve didn’t say anything, he just waited, and sure enough, moments later, Tony added, “I knew that you wouldn’t let me…”

 

Tony couldn’t say the rest, but Steve heard it anyway.

 

Tony had known that Steve wouldn’t let him suffer alone- even if he couldn’t seek him out yet.

 

It was a statement of trust, and Steve recognised it as such and cherished it. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t above a little teasing, as he replied, “You knew I’d come after you?”

 

 “Yes” to his credit, there was no hesitation or embarrassment in Tony’s voice as he answered.

 

“That I wouldn’t let you keep me out?”  Steve pressed, rolling closer and propping himself up on one arm to better see Tony’s face.

 

Tony was starting to see the forming pattern and wrinkling his nose, he answered, “Yeah – Yes! Okay?”

 

 “That I’d be there anyway?” Okay, now there was definitely some teasing happening, and Steve watched as Tony cracked an eye open to stare up at him before answering.

 

“Yeah. Yes, Sleep Now?” The last was hopeful, and Steve almost felt bad, but at least Tony wasn’t thinking about dead best friends and that was the original aim.

 

Steve reached out and brushed the stubborn lock of hair away from Tony’s eyes as they glared liquid doom up at him, and he took great joy in adding, “That I’d hold you an- ”

 

 “Sleep?”  Tony had cut him off on that one, so Steve figured it was time to stop his little game.

  
“Kiss yo-…sleep? Okay” The captain agreed, eyes twinkling as Tony registered the begging of the sentence and his own eyes widened.

 

Back scrabbling, Tony ate his words, reaching for Steve as he amended, “No – I meant – kiss now. That’s what I meant.”

 

“Sleep” And then they were back at the beginning, Steve thought, rolling Tony down onto his back and tucking him close.

 

“Oh – but…” The genius looked so put out disappointed that Steve almost laughed, because surely Tony had learnt by now that it was rare for Steve to deny him anything that was so easily given.

 

 

“Sle-” Steve started to say, but something of his previous thoughts must have shown in his eyes, because Tony dragged him down into the kiss and Steve let him, rolling into the gentle press of lips on lips as Tony finally, _finally_ relaxed.

 

And Steve knew it wasn’t really over. Knew that there would be nightmares and mood swings and knew that Tony would probably hide in his workshop tomorrow.   

 

But Steve would just follow him, because now he knew could?

 

He always would.

 

* * *

* * *

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes. I did terrible things with your feels. Was fun.  
> Same time next week?
> 
> I tried to keep this fairly generic in case of trigger issues, and deliberately made sure that 'Author chose not to use archive warnings' was selected. I didn't go any further than that because *Spoilers*.
> 
> Also - I have no idea what I'm talking about as far as US military procedures go in these types of situations. Take it in the spirit and manner it's offered and know I mean no disrespect or dishonor.
> 
> As always, written at ridiculous hours with little sleep and no beta, so please feel free, or feel encouraged to point out anything that jumps out at you.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed :)
> 
> One more 'Insomniac Dreaming' to go, and its the quintessential 'nightmare piece.  
> For all you wonderful, fantastic readers who have been there since the first words of 'Insomnia' - next month will be the last story and coincidentally - exactly one year since the first.
> 
> I'm hoping to go out with a bang!
> 
> *At least until I move onto other things*

**Author's Note:**

> No beta used, and while I did my best, I really appreciate any help with glaring errors to make my stories better.
> 
> Keep an eye out for more soon.


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